Chapter 2

The End of Something

The crisp air of midwinter caused the sheer curtains to billow, and there was a faint scent of charred wood from old-fashioned furnaces permeating the air just under the clean, fresh scent of fabric softener. Angeline pulled up the black and white plaid comforter, tucking it tightly around her neck, her hair matted with sweat on her cheeks. The skies on this particular morning were clear, and dappled sunlight covered their old bedroom in rays of gold. She could barely remember the furniture here, and it was enveloped in a cloudy and intangible haze. That didn’t matter. 

Angeline felt a chill on her skin and shivered slightly under the covers. It didn’t help that she was covered in sweat, the comforter uncomfortably sticking to her naked body on her legs and back. She gazed deeply at the black camera lens in front of her face, as if she could lock eyes with the man behind it, his long dark brown hair falling in front of his face in curls. Her face was still flushed from the activities of that morning, and she couldn’t help but smile at him. He pressed the shutter with a snap, and setting the camera aside, their eyes met again. Her heartrate quickened as their stares intensified, and she felt a slight dampness growing between her legs.  She put her arms around him, and they kissed passionately, their naked bodies coming together in an embrace once again. 

The truth of what was under that blanket, and the words behind her smiling face would forever remain a secret between the two of them.

Angeline opened her eyes slowly and stared straight up as the blades of the ceiling fan rotated slowly, filling the room with the droning of the electric hum. She hadn’t had that dream in a long time, the echoes of better days, when they were young. They were the dreams of someone else. A past life, where all they needed was love and dreams to survive. 

She blinked and then extended her arms and legs in a deep stretch, her back popping in a satisfying crack. She kicked off the woven tan throw blanket that had little tassels on the ends and sat up on the bed with her legs over the side, in her black, gray and pink flannel pajamas. They were quite loose, so she had the pink flannel drawstring tied tightly in a bow. 

She looked out the window to the right, toward the alley that ran alongside the apartment building. The sun appeared to be above the level of the window, blanketing the courtyard in shadow. In the early mornings, the sun shone directly into their room, only moving to partial illumination by ten or eleven ’o’clock. She glanced at Jonathan’s handmade nixie tube alarm clock sitting on his solid oak dresser that matched hers in the corner, a strange electronic device which appeared to be a wooden block with vacuum tubes sticking out of it. Each tube had wire mesh wrapped around an anode and cathodes that glowed in the pattern of digits. It gave off an orange-red glow that bathed the room in its warmth at night. Angeline wasn’t a fan of it. However, the glow was pleasant while she tried to sleep and so she had tolerated it. 10:45, it read. 

Her dream was fading fast from her memory as the normal thoughts of everyday life assaulted her peace on this Sunday morning. She stood up on the plush carpet, still groggy from sleep, and made her way to the door, which was slightly ajar. She had left the door open last night; someone must have closed it this morning. Poking her head out of the room, the animated sounds of Sunday morning cartoons came from down the hall, floating in the air and bringing a smile to her face. 

Angeline turned right, down the hall to the bathroom, the sounds from the tv growing dimmer. Sophia’s innocent laughs echoed throughout the apartment, and she bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. The wood floor creaked as she stepped on it, that one loose plank that neither she nor Jonathan had ever been able to fix. She glanced at the medium sized canvas oil painting that was hung at the end of the hallway. Jonathan had painted an abstract portrait of her in college and called her his muse. Before, she could only see the beauty in the paint. Time has so dulled the colors in her eyes that the truth underneath speaks volumes: it is but a collection of flawed brush strokes and shading mistakes made by an amateur in an incomplete and clumsy gesture done in the name of love. She opened the bathroom door to the left and stepped inside.

She was hit with a wall of wet, sticky, humid air, and the sliding glass shower door at the other end was still damp. Water droplets clung to the white tiled walls of the shower; the scent of baby shampoo hung pleasantly in the room. 

Angeline had picked out the bathroom décor, the solid-colored bathmats in pastels, and the green glass bulbous soap dispensers that were reminiscent of old apothecary glass. She selected the linens as well, plush and absorbent cotton, and the decorative hand towels, which were absolutely not to be used. 

On the right were their front-loading washer and dryer set, with wire rack storage shelves mounted above it. The bathroom had a long floating double vanity, in a modern rose wood finish, and a gray stone countertop. In between the dual sinks sat an antique olive-green absinthe bottle, with a purple orchid growing out of it. 

It had been Jonathan’s delicate and deliberate touches all across their shared spaces that gave the ultra-modern and sterile design that Angeline favored a subtle vibrancy and personality of its own. 

Angeline’s feet slapped softly against the cold tile, and she neglected to flip the switch to turn on the lights or the heated panels below the floor. She quickly finished in the bathroom and walked back into the hallway. 

The lights in the kitchen and hallway were off. Angeline had poked her head into Sophia’s room and the kitchen but saw no sign of Jonathan. She looked toward the living room area, but saw only Sophia sitting on the couch, watching a show on tv. She glanced into the study on the left, the silent motes of dust dancing in the light, the only things moving in the emptiness. The silence was deafening, drowning out the lively soundtrack from the shows on the tv, and it only fed Angeline’s anger. She balled her hand in a fist and struck the wall with the side of her palm, as a picture fell with a dull thud on the other side of the wall in the study. 

Sophia stood on the seat of the couch and looked over the back at her mother, who was glaring at the front door. Angeline looked at her and consciously softened her expression, her scowl melding into a forced smile. 

“Baby, where’s your father?” Angeline wore a smile halfheartedly.

Sophia put her index finger to her chin, in an exaggerated thinking gesture. She wrinked her nose and pursed her lips as if thinking were a strenuous affair. 

“Daddy said he went to the store, and he’ll be back later,” she said in between jumps on the couch with her red and green plaid dress lifting over her white tights. 

Angeline nodded in realization as her lips curled downward into a frown. She eyed Sophia.

“Stop jumping on the damn couch!” 

The smile left Sophia’s face as she complied with one final jump, plopping down to sit. 

With a quick step, Angeline emerged from the hall, her bare feet striding onto the hand braided jute area rug in the living room. She stopped in front of Sophia, who was dwarfed by the couch and the open concept, a lonely little flower growing amidst a cavernous void. Her knees protested with a crack as she crouched down and looked directly into her daughter’s icy blue eyes. Sophia eyed her curiously, and Angeline reached out and took her in her arms in a tender embrace. 

“Sorry, I yelled at you.” Angeline stroked her head and kissed her cheek enthusiastically. “You look very pretty today.” 

Sophia tried to smile as her eyes closed shut from the pressure of Angeline’s kiss compressing their faces together. 

“Daddy dressed me today!”

Angeline turned her head to the left and looked out the window at the overcast sky. He had left Sophia alone again. She straightened her daughter’s dress, tying the bow around her waist and adjusted the white turtleneck she had on underneath. She wiped the beads of sweat at Sophia’s hairline, her red hair was done in a thin princess braid around the crown of her head and tied to the back in a bow. It was beginning to frizz from the sweat.

Angeline patted her head. “Don’t jump on the couch when you look so pretty. You’re ruining your hair.”

She stood with a groan and noticed browning and yellowing leaves on some of the potted plants growing along the windows. There were two elevated plant benches that spanned the length of the windows–made of reclaimed wood planks. The lowest bench was only a foot above the floor and held the taller pots, while the second was nearly four feet off the ground and held the shorter pots, cascading plants and succulents. There were so many plants, that it appeared to be a solid wall of green extending the open concept from the living room at the front of the apartment, through the dining room and to the bar, with specks of the other colors of the rainbow mixed in from the colorful designs on the pots or from a toy hidden in the jungle by Sophia.

 She grabbed a pair of wrought iron shears that was hanging from a hook that had been drilled into one of the support beams. She deftly trimmed the spider plant, monstera and pothos, and clipped her maple bonsai, adjusting a wired branch while Sophia studied her from the couch, cleverly skirting her mother’s command by bouncing on the foam cushion without completely lifting her feet up. 

“I’m… hungry… mommy,” Sophia said between heavy breaths, “We didn’t eat ‘brefast’ yet.”

Angeline turned to her little lookalike and an idea popped in her mind. “Hmm. How about pancakes from the diner?”

The suggestion was met with jubilant cheers from Sophia. Angeline hung up the shears, and pinched Sophia’s cheek.

“I’m going to get my nails done. Let’s go shopping too.”

“Can I pick the color?”

Angeline smiled. “Of course, baby.”

Angeline placed the call to the diner as she left the comfort of the rug in the living room, her bare feet pattering on the wooden floor. She grasped the cold brass doorknob of the hallway closet and turned it, the mortise lock putting up a feeble resistance with an audible squeak. As it opened, the stale air seeped out and enveloped her face, heavy with the smell of cleaning liquids, and solutions of acetone and paint thinner. She took out their colorful cordless vacuum cleaner and closed the door with a bump of her hips. The previous tenants had for years painted over the lock and door frame, and Jonathan had to dig out the bore on the door jamb so the latch bolt would fit properly. He had done what he could with a flathead screwdriver, and the door would close now with some effort. 

She wheeled the vacuum behind her as she walked on the balls of her feet to the end of the hall and into Sophia’s room on the right. This side of the apartment always had indirect lighting, making the bedrooms feel warm and inviting, the diffuse nature of the light making them feel airy. She glanced at the rocking chair which had a fleece blanket printed with a cartoon frog draped over the seat back. On the seat were the stuffed animals and plush foods that Sophia was so fond of. The floor was a mess of building blocks and toys, and Angeline used her feet to gather them together, scooping them up and putting them in a nearby bucket. She plugged the vacuum into the wall and flipped the switch on the handle. It came roaring to life in a deafening suction, and she ran it along the floor.

She enjoyed mindless domestic tasks like these, when her mind could be unchained and freely associate, like a waking dream in the middle of the morning. Of course, it also satisfied a deeper primal desire for order and ultimately, control. She smiled with a slight satisfaction at the straight lines in the rug as she ran the vacuum across it.

She was absentmindedly vacuuming what looked like cookie crumbs from the floor and twirled to face the door. Out of the corner of her view, there was a pair of blue and black sneakers, with the hems of black denim jeans resting on top, bunched up slightly. 

Angeline gasped, dropping the vacuum, her eyes wide in shock. It fell to the floor with a muted thud, the odd shape of the dust canister making it roll on its side. As the brush head lifted off the floor, the suction increased in volume, filling the void between Angeline in the center of the room, and Jonathan, standing in the doorway with an awkward and relentless shriek. His eyes were fixed on her.

She put her hand down from her chest, tilting her head back with a deep sigh. Bending over, she switched the vacuum off and set it upright. 

Angeline stood up straight and scowled at Jonathan with fire in her eyes, the brief shock now replaced with contempt. “You left Sophia alone, again. Didn’t I say that she should never be left alone? She’s three.”

Jonathan sighed softly. “I just went to the store around the corner. You were home.”

She glared at him again. “You could have taken her with you. Or, get this, you could have woken me up.” Her tone was becoming increasingly sardonic. “You had so many choices but no, what did you do? The absolute worst thing you could have done. You left your three-year-old by herself!”

“I—,” Jonathan started, but sighed in resignation. He knew that there was no winning this. He would have received Angeline’s ire whether he woke her up or not. And he did not want Sophia to know what he was picking up just yet. She wouldn’t understand.

Angeline’s eyes narrowed as she spoke, and they became heavy and glossy, filling with frustrated tears that hadn’t yet streamed down her face. When she got this way, she was no longer able to hear anything beyond her own voice.

It was about this time in their arguments when Jonathan would either apologize or walk away in defeat. But today, Angeline sensed something different about him. He stood before her a little straighter. And his gaze never left hers. 

She suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“Ange,” he said softly.

It was her nickname. Names are a powerful thing. A contract between the one naming and the named. He hadn’t called her that in years. The sound of it leaving his lips was like a shock to her core. It was enough to make the tirade die on her tongue, and she looked up to meet his gaze, the warmth gone from her face. 

Their eyes had finally met. “I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.” He studied her expression. “And… it’s terminal.

She didn’t move as he revealed it in no uncertain terms.

He detailed what the next six months would be like. 

The next three months would be a slow decline, with meals getting smaller, and solid foods being replaced with liquid supplements. Fatigue would become increasingly overwhelming as his appetite decreased, and pain management included more opioids.

“I’ll lose most of my body weight, digestive issues, debilitating weakness.” He said it so matter of factly, as if reading off a checklist. Angeline did not speak.

Then, in the following three months, he would be confined to a bed. Bathing and dressing would become impossible to do alone, and he would probably stop eating altogether at some point.

“I expect I’ll lose some cognitive function. I don’t know how it will affect me, but I guess it’s like dementia.” A sly smile crept across his face. “Maybe I’ll forget who I am. Maybe I’ll forget you.”

Jonathan ran his hand through his hair. “I’m going to die. And soon.” His voice wavered for the first time. “I’m looking to you for your strength… and for support.” He took a step toward her into the room.

As if by instinct, Angeline recoiled, taking a step backward. Her eyes shifted onto the objects around the room, as if she were searching for something. The calico cat night light. The origami on the dresser. The plush taco on the rocking chair. The blue sneakers on Jonathan’s feet. The vacuum cleaner at her side. She grabbed it.

She met his focused gaze again. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Her face was absent of emotion.

The switch on the vacuum flipped on with a click and she continued cleaning the rug. The droning of the vacuum filled the silence between them again, and Jonathan took a step back and stood in the doorway, watching her. It was unspoken, but they both knew what Angeline meant. 

They would never speak about this ever again. 

Jonathan looked to his right; Sophia’s small frame was silhouetted in the shadow of the kitchen arch as she leaned against the opposite wall. She looked up at him, her eyes alight with curiosity, like two gemstones glittering in the dark. The sight of her outside of the room was a calming presence against the aggressive banging and slamming of the vacuum within. 

Sophia flinched as a loud bang echoed into the hallway. Jonathan smiled at her and slowly lifted his right index finger to his lips, mouthing for her to be quiet. She nodded emphatically, understanding her mother’s needs. Sophia spun about, her dress fluffing as she scampered down the hall, retreating to the living room with delicate steps.

Angeline received no enjoyment from her cleaning. Jonathan had left the room and disappeared from the doorway, leaving a disquieting air in his wake. She turned off the vacuum. As if the thunderous droning had held the walls at bay, the silence had welcomed the walls inward, and she felt them closing in around her. She breathed heavy, deliberate breaths, and fought the urge within her to scream. She grabbed the little tan peacoat hanging from a coat rack mounted on the wall, and the leather penny loafers neatly set underneath, quickly leaving the room and stepping into the hall. She hastened to her bedroom, as if being chased by a specter she couldn’t yet name.

Jonathan’s clock glowed warmly in the corner of their bedroom, and it was the only part of the room where the walls seemed to hold up on their own. For once, she was appreciative of it. She dressed quickly, in white toothpick jeans and a black and white striped shirt. She slipped on tobacco colored lace-up leather boots and grabbed a hooded down parka. It was halfway on her body as she stumbled into the hallway, Sophia’s coat and shoes tucked under her arm. She called for Sophia as her boots made for heavy steps, each resonating with the floor in a dull thud. Sophia suddenly appeared in the hallway with a smile.

They met near the dining room, as Angeline bent to one knee. Sophia put her right hand on her mother for support, clumsily lifting each leg to slip her feet into the shoes awaiting on the floor. Angeline wrapped the coat around Sophia, the hidden fasteners snapping shut with a firm click under her deft fingertips. She studied her daughter’s face as a crease appeared between Sophia’s eyebrows and the corners of her mouth pulled down into a pout. 

Angeline smiled at her, the kind of half smile that showed on the bottom half of her face, while her eyes remained vacant, far away in time with the rest of her mind. Sophia was too young to notice and beamed brightly in return. Angeline caressed her face gently and stood to her feet, holding her hand out. Sophia took it, her little hand gripping her mother’s fingers tightly. They walked hand in hand to the front door, passing Jonathan as he sat typing at his desk. He turned his head as they passed, studying Angeline’s figure from behind, his eyes wandering across the curves of her breasts and waist as she walked out of their door. She could feel his eyes on her, tilting her head slightly to the side. The fact that he still watched her with those kind of eyes, and that specific intention didn’t escape her, and it filled her with both pride and repulsion in equal measure. 

The door creaked as it slammed shut behind her, and the moment ended. The two of them stood in the hallway alone, draped in the flickering of the fluorescent light, the incessant droning of the electrical ballast permeating the hall with a constant noise floor. It seemed to be louder today than it had been the day before. 

Angeline quickly rushed to the elevator lobby, and Sophia let go of her hand to call the elevator. The brass button clicked as her tiny fingertip pressed it, and the red downward facing arrow lit up. A faint whirring could be heard from somewhere below them, increasing in intensity as the elevator climbed up the shaft, passing each floor with the chime of a bell. The window in the blue elevator door was suddenly alight, and it announced its arrival with another chime. 

She grasped the metallic handle that had been worn from continuous use and yanked the door open. The elevator car was a stainless-steel box, lit overhead by an exposed incandescent bulb. Sophia rushed in, scuttling to the panel, eagerly waiting for instruction. Her head barely reached the grab bars, but if she stretched, she could reach the 8^th floor button with relative ease. The car gave slightly as Angeline stepped in, the smell of dust and machine grease an assault on her nostrils, viscous with an unpleasant chemical odor. Her lip curled and nostrils flared in discomfort as she entered. 

Angeline pointed to the star next to an unlit bare metal button, and Sophia pressed it excitedly, laughing when it sprung back, lighting a small bulb in the center. The inner door slid closed, catching the lock with a click, and the car descended with a jump. Angeline swatted Sophia’s hand, stopping the clacking of the button from Sophia’s repeated rapid presses. They stood together for a moment quietly, before a second jump signaled they had arrived at the lobby floor. The inner door opened, and someone on the other side swung open the outer door.

Angeline grabbed Sophia, hoisting her on her right side, walking through the small group waiting to board. The main lobby was open, with colonnades leading to the front glass façade. Angeline noted that the design was more than a few years outdated, with its pitted marble flooring and siding. On the left was the modest doorman’s desk, and Frank was on duty today.

She waved to Frank as she walked past his desk, and he responded with a wave, voicing a polite greeting. Frank was an elderly man, in his late 60s or 70s, they were unsure which. He was short, about as tall as she was, his gray hair cut short. He had prominent laugh lines, a sure sign that he had genuinely smiled in his life. She knew that he was a pensioner, he had told her that himself and had become a doorman because he couldn’t survive in the city on his pension alone. He said to her once that it had been enough ten years ago, but that he was slowly being priced out of the city he was born in, the city that he had known all his life. Frank had raised his entire family here, and they had thanked him by moving down south for better weather. And now he was the last one of his kind remaining. Angeline had thought it was such a lonely story and so tipped him generously. Jonathan had been more skeptical, poking holes in his story as they discussed it. It was a faint memory, but she had enjoyed those conversations. 

She stepped through the rotating glass door and into the cold, crisp air of late autumn in the city. It was a clear, blustery day, and the orange-red and yellow leaves of the maple trees that lined the sidewalk gathered around her feet, crunching under her steps. She took a right, and trod down the dirty but familiar paths, on streets she had passed by a thousand times before. 

They entered the nail salon and spa, a regular haunt for Angeline. It was three blocks away, on a major avenue that crisscrossed the entire downtown. It was a favorite for all the women her age in the neighborhood, many of whom were stay at home moms living off their husband’s income—leaving their children to be raised by their nannies or au pairs while they escape their mundane lives for a little pampering. It was a problem that Angeline envied. She wasn’t so fortunate as to have a husband like theirs, who likely worked in finance or came from generational wealth. She didn’t come from money and worked hard for years to get as far as she did. Her life wasn’t supposed to be like what it was; it was supposed to be full of happiness, luxury and pleasurable things. That’s what they had promised each other, anyway.

Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the walnut rack on the wall, gazing at the plastic jars of pigment powders, held in place by steel wire railing. Sophia was in her arms, pointing a little finger at a jar on the third row, but Angeline couldn’t hear what she was saying. She could scarcely remember how she even got here, suddenly hyperaware of where she was and what she was doing. But this too was soon forgotten, washed downstream in the rivers of repetition and routine. Her nail tech grabbed the jar of hot pink pigment and they sat at her nail table, Angeline opting for a dip powder manicure. Sophia sat quietly in her lap.

Angeline watched carefully as the tech removed the old dip powder from her nails with a pink rotary file, the flakes ablating at fifteen-thousand rpm. Each nail filed covered the rest of her hand with the sediment of days past, smothering her under a fine white dust. The tech took a gloved hand and pinched a cotton ball between her fingers, pressing it repeatedly on the nearby push down dispenser filled with a clear liquid. She scrubbed Angeline’s nails clean, and the familiar smell of acetone stung in the air. Her nails were wrapped in foil. The chair was straight backed and the wood groaned as she leaned, but she still pressed it as hard as she could. Sophia was becoming restless and played with her mother’s face to pass the time, her little hands contorting it into funny expressions that Angeline held. Sophia’s laughs echoed against the walls, at least to Angeline’s ears, as if it was just the two of them in the salon.

After having her nails cleaned, she started the process of dipping them in the pigment powder and polishing, powder and polishing, repeatedly, until it finally layered thick in a sinuous, uneven pink mass. It was the blank canvas from which the tech would meticulously file and smooth, applying a topcoat at the end for a lustrous finish.

Angeline’s eyes had lost their shine, and her lips had been drawn into a line as she stared at her hands under the harsh light emanating from the black flexible lamp that was clamped to the side of the desk. Twenty minutes of waiting later, she finished and paid, pulling out two crisp twenty-dollar bills from her wallet and handing them to her nail tech. She hadn’t even recognized her face today. 

Sophia shook her mother’s hand. “Mommy, mommy! Can we go to the park?”

Angeline looked down at her daughter, whose eyes were alight with expectation. She couldn’t say no.

Angeline put their coats back on and walked with Sophia out of the salon. She held her tiny hands tightly as they slowly ambled down the sidewalk. They stopped at a crosswalk, but Angeline couldn’t see the pedestrian signal across the street. It was as if she were looking at the world through a tube, and all existence within her periphery had simply ceased to be, becoming a smear of color and noise that her brain had chosen to ignore. 

Sophia tugged at her mother’s hand. “The walking man!” She said it with a reverence that only a child could express, as she pointed to the pedestrian light.

The two crossed the checkered crosswalk to the park across the street. The playground was accessible from the sidewalk and had black spongy turf under the plastic and composite lumber play castle, monkey bars and the zip line. It had branching paths for children to follow, whether over the drawbridge or down the slides. But Angeline couldn’t perceive it, and to Sophia, it didn’t matter anyway. She was only there for one thing.

Sophia led them to the swings, which was all she would talk about lately. They were gated off from the rest of the playground, presumably to keep the other children safe. Angeline felt a substantial give when she stepped on the turf. Sophia’s steps were light as ever, padded and silent as she grabbed the bucket toddler swing with outstretched arms. Angeline lifted her into the swing in a swift motion, setting her into the seat. She gave her a light push, and it swung with a clink from the chain links attaching it to the structure.  

Angeline stared forward blankly as she gently pushed Sophia in an automatic motion. She laughed as she swung, her red hair blowing to and fro in the breeze. 

Angeline suddenly felt a chill down her spine. She stood still, paralyzed in place, frozen in time. The swing moved on its momentum. There was nothing on her mind. It was a profound emptiness, as if her body was blank vessel, waiting for instruction. The swing was reaching equilibrium, slower and slower, to Sophia’s ever-increasing annoyance. The swing finally came to a stop, and she tried to move it with her own weight, without success.

“Push me, mommy!” Sophia whined, her brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a frustrated frown.  

Angeline’s neck snapped to her daughter, as she struggled in the seat. Her hands were becoming red from gripping the cold chain and being whipped with the early winter winds.

And suddenly the dam burst open, and her brain was flooded with the sensory information she had missed.  She saw the rustling needles of the evergreen bushes behind them, and the tall and mottled sycamore trees growing around the circular grounds that were naked and devoid of their leaves. The gray stratus clouds obscured the warmth of the sun as they roiled ominously in the overcast sky. The dry, brown leaves tumbling as they danced in the wind.

She saw other children playing, climbing on the castle, and chasing each other in a game of tag. Parents were tending to a young boy not ten feet away from her who was crying loudly in a designer stroller. Along the sidewalk were people jogging or walking to unknown destinations: the hustle and bustle of the city. 

She had walked with Sophia at her side through it all, in what should have been like wading through rapids without a life preserver, but she hadn’t perceived any of it. Angeline shook her head softly, sobering to reality, while pushing a laughing Sophia. The winter chill was settling in her bones, but her daughter’s innocent laughter warmed her heart. 

They left shortly after to shop on the fashion strip, a ten-block strip of real estate that was home to the flagship stores of some of the largest and well-known fashion brands. It was dark by four-thirty this time of year, but it wasn’t until after six that they were back in front of 5J, with Angeline searching for her keys while the twine handles of the monogrammed paper bags biting into the joint creases of her fingers. The flickering light made for a stroboscopic effect when the hallway, with it’s too-close walls, was stripped of the daylight. It was disorienting as she fumbled with the keys, finally finding the right one, and opening the door. 

A powerful torrent of aromas—of oil, fried meat, herbs and tomato sauce—enveloped the two of them, and Angeline closed her eyes, savoring it, her mouth watering. She looked down at Sophia, who was mirroring her actions and smiled, locking the door behind them. Not everything had changed.

“Put your jacket in your room, Sophia.”

Jonathan could be seen from the door, straight through the apartment in the kitchen, standing over a steaming skillet on the range. A metal spoon brushing against the steel-clad cookware clanged softly and echoed through the dark open spaces of the apartment. 

The twenty-inch pendant light of hammered and oxidized copper was suspended over the dining room table, illuminating it in a warm light. In the center of the table was a small stack of three stoneware dishes. Angeline eyed them as she walked past, following the dim circles on the floor cast from the hallway’s recessed lights overhead. She walked into the bedroom, the moonlight spilling onto the floor from the window. With some difficulty, she tapped the switch with a hand that had gone numb on the walk home. The relief was immediate when she set the bags down in front of her dresser. She would have to sort out the clothes later. 

She sat at the edge of the bed and kicked off the boots, her feet feeling like they were steaming in the waterproofed leather. Angeline allowed herself a minute or two of respite there in the darkness, as she laid back on the bed, her hair splayed out underneath her. Her coat lay beside her, as she slowly drifted off, her heavy eyelids finally drawing shut. 

A shake of her arm tethered her back to the ground, springing her eyes open, only for her to collide with Sophia’s forehead with a thud. There were stars in her eyes as a sharp pain radiated through her skull. 

“Dinner’s done, mommy, it’s the chicken ‘cha-story’. It’s your favorite, right?”

Angeline groaned in pain, rubbing her forehead. She looked at Sophia babbling, with an incredulous look on her face. Sophia wasn’t hurt at all.

“Yeah, baby. It’s mommy’s favorite.”

Sophia climbed down and scurried out of the room as Angeline rubbed her eyes, standing and stumbling out of the open door to the hallway. There was a plate set out for her on the end of the table closest to the hall; it was her favorite seat. Steaming on top of the circular hand-woven rattan placemats was a shallow dish of browned chicken thighs, cooked in simmered onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, garlic, herbs and spices and red wine in a hand emulsified sun ripened tomato-based sauce: Jonathan’s chicken cacciatore. It was served with a helping of mashed potatoes and garnished with fresh shredded parsley. 

Jonathan sat on one of the chairs to the side and was already eating with Sophia, who was in a booster seat in the chair next to him. He had already shredded bite sized pieces for her, setting aside any bones. She ate greedily; her lips and cheeks covered in red sauce. Angeline took her place at the head of the table and peered down at the food. It smelled as good as it always did, as good as she remembered, and she separated the tender meat with the side of the fork as juices spilled out. She forked a bit of the meat and swirled it in the sauce, picking up a soft chunk of tomato. The taste of wine and tomatoes hit her tongue first, with the savoriness of the chicken. The subtle sweetness of the simmered onion and bell peppers were next with the mild spice of smoked red pepper, culminating with the earthiness of the mushrooms to draw the flavors together. 

They ate in silence; the only sounds being the forks scraping across empty plates. 

Angeline took her plate into the kitchen and stopped just past the threshold, her brows knit and face twisted into a scowl. Jonathan had done the dishes but left several cabinet doors open. Her grip tightened on the dish, and she stomped across the wooden floor and placed it into the sink. She grabbed the nearby spice cabinet door, and flung it, the force making it slam shut with a bang. Jonathan smiled at Sophia, wiping her face and mouth with a paper towel as several loud bangs came from the kitchen and across the bar. She jumped in her seat with each one.

Angeline bathed and dressed Sophia and put her to bed soon after. She stepped out of the room into the dark hallway observing that a light was on in the study. She sighed as she walked, her feet dragging. Jonathan was in the study, typing away on his laptop. Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head as she walked in, the floor groaning slightly under the rug. She pulled her chair out and sat, staring at Jonathan’s back briefly. He had stopped typing and was scratching the back of his head, murmuring to himself softly. It was a process she’d seen him do before. He would write and self-edit, paragraph by paragraph, dwelling on particular sentences until they sounded poetic or poignant enough. There was one in nearly every paragraph. Every one had to have a hook. 

She swiveled around and pulled out her leather-bound journal from the drawer. The sound of the wood on wood made sent shivers down her spine. Jonathan flinched from across the room. 

She would have to remember to ask Jonathan to fix it. 

Angeline turned the black turn knob on her articulating lamp, and it lit the desk in a clinical white glow with a loud click. Grabbing a silver refillable fountain pen, she began to write.

December 17, 2015

Where do I even start? 

I’ve been having strange dreams lately. Half-remembered fragments of memories of the past. They aren’t things that I want to remember. It’s like my subconscious is betraying me. I wonder, why does my mind always go there… to the girlish hopes that life had so effectively stamped out within me? Maybe in some ways I want things to be easier. I admit, it was simpler when all we needed was love. But then reality sets in, and you find out that love is never enough. 

Sophia was left alone again today. Jonathan disappeared to who knows where and left her all alone. I don’t understand what goes on in his brain. I used to think he was brilliant, but is it that brilliant minds do the stupidest things? I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here either, who would leave a three-year-old alone in a house without even waking up their mother? He could have even taken her with him. I’m starting to think that he doesn’t even care about her. How could you be so absentminded?

He’s so selfish! All he thinks about is himself.

I’ll never forget it: early on in our relationship, I wanted so desperately to share my life with him, and for him to share his life with me. I tried to connect with him so many times, even trying out his hobbies and the things he liked, so we would have something, anything in common. I’d want to watch his favorite shows with him, or play a game with him, but I would always catch him watching without me, choosing his friends over me to play with. I cried on the sidelines, and he was too self-centered to care, too oblivious to see. 

I don’t care about that anymore, but it’s like nothing has changed in ten years. 

And now he’s dumped more things on me: he’s got cancer and I’m the one who will have to wait on him, feeding him, changing his goddamn diapers, bathe him. To make it worse, he’s known about it for months and was going to treatment in secret! Why keep it secret until the last minute?

I didn’t fucking ask for this bullshit! It’s like he wants to make me as miserable as possible on purpose. We said vows, I know, ‘in sickness and in health’, but this is a setup. 

I regret ever accepting a ring from you. Why didn’t I just say no?

This will never happen to Sophia. Thankfully, she’s still young, and won’t remember the next few months.